Adleman remembered the touch of paranoia he’d always felt when in the presence of ranking officers he had served with when he was in the military. After ROTC and law school at Brown, his stint as an Army lawyer had filled the square for military service, even if he didn’t go to the Gulf. It was an unstated requirement now for political office — no one was going to be caught dead without serving some real time, not after the Hagel brouhaha.
The limo slowed and pulled up to the gate of Yokota AFB. The guard inspected the driver’s credentials, then snapped to attention and threw a salute when she realized that Adleman was in the car. It took another ten minutes to reach Air Force Two.
Someone shone a flashlight into Adleman’s face for the first time as he approached the 747. The light quickly disappeared.
“Sorry, Mr. Vice President. I had to make sure it was you.”
“S’all right.” Adleman blinked back the blue-and-orange afterimage of the light as he entered the jumbo jet.
“This way, sir.” Merke steered him to the back, toward the Presidential chambers.
Merke shut the door as she left. The room was quiet, except for the faint pulsing of the plane’s electrical systems as air pumped throughout the craft. The chamber was insulated against sound and electromagnetic emissions. Rich, deep-blue carpeting with the presidential seal embossed in the center of the room contrasted with the blue-and-white patterns on the walls. Two phones sat on the desk before him — one white, the other red. The red phone had no buttons.
Adleman moved around the desk and made himself comfortable before picking up the red phone. “Adleman.”
“Bob?”
The voice sounded tinny. “Yes?”
“Francis here.” Even through the digitally reconstructed double scrambling, the Secretary of State’s voice sounded tired. “We’ve got a little problem.”
Adleman tightened his stomach. “Okay. How do I play in this?”
“The President is being taken to Bethesda. His situation has … deteriorated. It doesn’t look good. We wanted to alert you before the press got wind of it, keep it under wraps for another forty-eight hours until you’re in the Philippines.”
“Two days?! Can you keep the press off it that long?”
Acht tightened his voice. “The press is well aware of his condition. He sometimes doesn’t make a public showing for days on end.”
“But why keep it from the press? I knew all along it might come down to this. It doesn’t seem necessary to pull me out of bed for a double-encrypted call—”
“The other reason, Mr. Vice President,” interrupted Acht, with an edge to his voice, “for this double-encrypted call is that intelligence has spotted a terrorist who has surfaced for the first time in two years. This man is extremely dangerous. Yan Kawnlo was behind the attempted Thai assassination two years ago, and has acted as a consultant to terrorist groups throughout the world, from Syria to North Korea.”
Adleman leaned forward in his chair. “How does that affect me?”
“Kawnlo has a reputation for taking promising young terrorists under his wing, turning them into protégés, reminiscent of how bin Landen operated. CIA hasn’t gotten a name yet, but they have verified that a student of Kawnlo is operating out of Manila. The high-profile publicity of your upcoming visit there makes you a perfect target.”
“Are you advising me to stay out of the Philippines? I can’t let a terrorist dictate terms to the United States.”
Acht came back instantly. “No sir. I am not advocating canceling your trip,” he said, emphatically. “It is my opinion, as well as that of the intelligence community, that it would be a mistake to fly into Manila.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Fly into Clark. You’ll have some of the best defenses available in the world. No one will be able to get within miles of Air Force Two when it lands. And from there it’s a simple helicopter ride to the treaty negotiations in Manila. It’s much, much easier to defend against a helicopter than a jumbo jet, Mr. Vice President. We can always change the meeting place at the last moment and have the helicopter take you there, but we can’t change the location of Manila International Airport.”
Adleman pondered the news. Longmire is actually dying, he thought. It was something he had known all along — but until now, he had not felt the weight of this responsibility.
Now every decision he made could become a major policy, every statement, every offhand comment would be dissected and analyzed by an academician trying to glean a shred of meaning.
Would flying into Clark actually work against the U.S.? Would that be interpreted as an American lack of trust in the Philippine government — give the impression that the vice president was not willing to become another Benigno Aquino, landing at Manila only to be slaughtered?
Or would his flying into Manila be viewed as the act of a rash, macho new President, one who probably ignored the advice of his closest associates?
Adleman finally spoke. But when he did, his voice sounded stronger than it had just minutes before. “We’ll go into Clark. But don’t publicly announce the change until my flight is in the air. It’s been years since a vice president has visited the base, so I’ll use that as my ‘last-minute’ excuse for changing plans.”
Secretary of State Acht sounded relieved. “Very well, Mr. Vice President. We’ll keep you updated on the President’s condition.”
“Fine. And please, unless there’s any intelligence data that goes along with the call, I’d prefer an STE.”
“Howdy, Son.”
Bruce Steele glanced up, ready to growl at the person who had dared interrupt as he was getting ready for The Flight. His eyes widened as he caught the gleam of two silver stars shining off the shoulders of the man standing next to him.
“Good … good morning, sir.” Bruce drew himself up. Oh, crap, crap, crap!
General Simone stuck out a hand. “Peter Simone.”
“First Lieutenant Bruce Steele, sir.” Bruce shook the general’s hand. A ream of flight maps covered the table where Bruce stood. The squadron briefing room was empty except for the two of them. A can of Pepsi and a candy bar sat next to the maps.
“Glad to meet you, Bruce.”
“Thanks, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Simone cocked an eye at the young lieutenant. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Let’s see — you had already graduated from the Zoo when I was Commandant, hadn’t you?”
“That’s right, General. You arrived there the year I left.”
“Have you ever flown a general officer before, Bruce?”
Bruce hesitated. He had heard stories about Simone after he had left the Academy and gone to pilot training. “Blackman Simone” had not been the typical commandant, but rather had gotten rowdy with the cadets and thumbed his nose at red tape, paperwork, and bureaucrats. The story was that he was more concerned about his people than his own career. But that still didn’t guarantee Simone was someone to get chummy with. Bruce decided to treat him as he would anyone else. “No, sir. My instructor pilot at Holloman was a major. That’s as high as I’ve gone.”
“Good — no preconceived notions then.” Simone leaned against the preflight table. He looked more like the fatherly Chuck Yeager, “aw shucks” type than Commander of the entire Thirteenth Air Force. “Just remember when we’re up there, you’re the aircraft commander. I was flying fighters before you were born, so don’t feel like you have to hold back because of me. The day I start puking or feeling that I can’t handle a maneuver, I’ll know it’s time to leave the cockpit and do something really useful — like running the commissary service.”